


this is not my life

by girljustdied



Category: Misfits (TV 2009)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-28
Updated: 2011-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-03 21:02:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17291366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girljustdied/pseuds/girljustdied
Summary: it’s not that being famous wasn’t what she thought it’d be.  it’s that maybe she’s not who she thought she was—not anymore.





	this is not my life

**Author's Note:**

> 2x06.  
> prompts were "famous" and "high."

It’s not like she’d thought. The celebrity lifestyle. A lot of sitting alone in a hotel suite, knocking back bitty bottles of vodka and thinking about the freak show her life’s become. Maybe Simon was right. The whole thing doesn’t even bond the group together, not like the killing and the dying and shit—sets them all spinning apart instead. And it’s not as if her power’s like Nathan’s, or Curtis’, or Nikki’s, or even Kelly’s—being able to make people powerless to think of nothing but shagging her wasn’t exactly getting her any willing groupies.

Not that she wanted them. Much.

She’d thought Simon would go along with it. Coming out, being famous, if only to stick with the group. So what if he thought it would “change everything,” didn’t want it—well, fuck, sometimes Simon doesn’t make any bleeding sense, if she was going be frank. Even before, when she’d thought they’d had fuck all in common, she still sort of knew that they had this: feeling deep down they were nothing. Wanting to be wanted, wanting to be seen. All the same thing.

And yet he struck out on his own like it meant nothing. Hadn’t seen him for days.

Alisha knows it’s suspicious. Her reaching out to Simon. This Simon. Can imagine the lines etching in his brow at the sight of a simple text from her.

 _Do you want to pop over?_ That’s the best she can think to send. Noncommittal, like. As casual as can be for the one initiating, or whatever.

She misses him. Fuck’s sake. Doesn’t even want to mull over all the different, gutting, complicated ways she does. That’s what the vodka’s for. Obviously. And the spliff. Got loads of that now that she’s a star, but she’s been trying to cut back.

Not tonight, though.

He replies almost immediately: _Yes. What’s the room number?_

At least she can still rely on him being so fucking eager. Give him one compliment and he’s trying to get them all out for drinks, killing probation workers, traveling back in time—

No, she’s not thinking about that. Happy thoughts, yeah. Smoke in her lungs, a couple hundred quid in her handbag, her own posh hotel suite with her own face chatting on the big screen telly to some leggy bint from Channel 4. The life.

Loses track of time until there’s a knock at the door. It’s too fast to be Simon. Maybe Nathan there to annoy the shit out of her until she threatens to crush his balls Kelly-style and eventually just shoves him out on his ass into the hallway.

But it is Simon.

“Oh,” she’s a little confused. “Hiya.”

He frowns. “You asked me over.”

Alisha steps back to let him in. “No—I know that. Just got here rather quickly, didn’t you?”

He shrugs, looks at his feet as they cross the threshold. “I was nearby.”

“Nathan’s?” she smirks, plops down on the bed with a little hop while he closes the door.

“No,” he lies, looks a little scared when he turns back to see her sitting. “Where’s everyone?”

The question doesn’t make a lick of sense. “What? In their rooms, probably.” And then she starts laughing, just imagining what they’re all doing. Their mates. Curtis and Nikki are fuckin’ like bunnies, and Kelly’s on the phone with her mum making baby noises to her dog over the line, and Nathan’s wanking or picking at whatever gross food is lying around and missing Simon’s easy company—

“I just thought,” his voice unsure. He thought she wouldn’t want to be with him alone. Sobers her up a little for a split-second before she’s laughing again at the absurdity. “Is everything all right, Alisha?”

“What? Yeah—tip top of the world. Famous! The ASBO Five. Minus one.”

He nods. “You all have been on the television a lot. They’re talking about you on the internet.”

“Yeah?” she’s intrigued, leans forward, elbows on her knees. One slips a little, but she recovers. “What do they say about me?”

“Alisha, have you eaten anything today?”

Oh god. She is _starving_. Picks up the hotel phone, dials room service and immediately starts listing every food that pops into mind. Covers the receiver with a palm when she runs out of steam, “You want anything, Simon? Don’t say you’ll have a bite of anything I ordered. I don’t share well.”

He swallows, “A ham sandwich.”

“And a ham sandwich for my mate, Simon, all right?” her eyes on him grinning slightly and turning his head from her to take in her wreck of a room.

She suddenly feels self-conscious about all the clothes strewn about, all the trash. Almost. How are they ever gonna live together? She wonders. He’s so tidy, it’d probably drive her crazy. She’d probably drive _him_ crazy.

Wait. He’s hanging up a dress. Her dress. He’s cleaning. He’s _cleaning_.

“Don’t touch my things,” is what tumbles out of her mouth. And then at the shame flittering across his face, “Fuck’s sake. Please? Sorry? All right?”

“Sorry,” Simon pats down his hair.

“Come sit.” He doesn’t move, so she pats the bed to the right of her. “Come on.”

He obeys, hands clasped in his lap.

“Simon?” she doesn’t know what she even wants to say. He smells nice. Like, seriously.

“Alisha?” he hedges when she doesn’t continue.

“Nathan—Nathan misses you. And so does Kelly. And Curtis, yeah?”

He smirks like he knows what she’s really saying. Like he has any fucking clue. Says, “Is it what you all thought? Being rich and famous?”

It’s lonely. It’s really fucking lonely, she wants to tell him. Nothing _matters_. Wants to hold him so tightly he’ll bruise—especially when he looks over at her with that familiar, steady, penetrating gaze. Fuck. She leans against him without thinking, shoulder to shoulder. Reaches over and puts her hand on his wrist on top of his sleeve.

“Sure,” she murmurs. “Now I can have whatever I want. Maybe I’ll get fat and start a reality program where I make real beautiful people wanna fuck me for sport. It’d be hilarious.”

“Sounds very nice.” Sarcasm. He’s being sarcastic.

“Anything I want,” she finds herself reiterating belligerently, hand fisting in his shirtsleeve. “Seriously.”

“Alisha—” he starts.

“Simon,” breath stuck in her chest, she twists her body towards him until her legs halfway twine with his. “I want to fuck.” He leans away from her minutely, eyes comically wide. “You. Now.”

“What?” his eyes flitting away after a short moment and scanning every centimeter of her exposed skin with a weird, suspicious gaze.

She doesn’t get it at first. Oh. Tattoos—he’s looking for a freaky mind control tattoo. Makes her start giggling again; Curtis and her practically died laughing when he told her about Nathan all over her boy. Not that Curtis knew Simon was hers. Wasn’t hers. Yet. “Lie back. Come on.”

“You’re drunk,” he sounds unconvinced.

“Bombed as well,” she smiles cheekily. Stands halfway to straddle his lap, a firm hand on each of his shoulders. “I miss you, too. You know. Just not you exactly.”

It had to happen eventually. It’d already fucking happened.

“What?” confusion mars his features. Shit, did she just say that aloud? “Alisha, you’re not making any sense—”

“You still think about me?” her voice vaguely teasing—it’s the best she can do when she’s so close to him, knows his body so well. The way he shifts his hips slightly under her, the heavy breaths pressing his chest against hers, his shoulders tensing when she digs her fingertips in.

“Is this some kind of joke?”

“If it is,” she digs an arm between their bodies and presses her palm to his half-hard cock. Drags it up and down slowly over his trousers, “It isn’t mine.”

Joke’s on her really. All these feelings she doesn’t want, never really wanted. Used to wear her disconnection from everyone and everything as a point of pride. Nothing could impress her, hurt her, stir her—untouchable, even then. Just opposite, like. Sort of.

Opening her heart to a future version of the boy struggling to stay calm underneath her was like the kid with his finger in the dam. Let go and suddenly everything just comes rushing in, suffocating. Drowning. Something like that. All Alisha knows is there had been a time where she’d understood herself enough to know that she’d never willingly die for someone else—not even her mum, or her big brother, or Chloe. Never’d even stick her neck out unless there was something in it for her.

Things are different now.

Touching him felt like touching herself. Never been so close with almost no stimulation, thighs clenching tight around Simon’s as she strokes and teases him, fingertips digging into the fabric to give more pressure, give him more sensation. His hands are in fists in the sheets, mouth pursed tightly and exhales sharp against her cheek whenever they manage to force their way out.

“Open your eyes,” she tells him, but he only shuts them tighter. “Look at me.” He whimpers and thrusts up into her hand instead. “ _Look at me._ ”

Eyes blindingly blue, just like always. Awed, just like she remembers. Seeing her. Really seeing her.

“Can I?” he rasps, but can’t get whatever else out.

Doesn’t matter the question anyway. She just nods. So he slants back into the bed, grips her hips over her shorts and lifts her slightly so he can position a leg between hers—oh— “Fuck,” she gasps. Grinds up and down his thigh, the fabric of their clothes catching and slipping and there’s so much friction and his hips are twitching—no, hers. Her body feels like a lava lamp. All bright and melty and liquid.

Simon comes first with an embarrassed grunt inside his pants, but she’s not much further behind to judge. Grits her eyes shut, throws her head back with a sharp cry.

She slumps forward after, bends her body until she can press her forehead safely to his chest. “Oh, god. Oh, god.” Whispers it over and over.

She feels trembling fingers touch her hair. Just barely. She wants to touch his hands. All she wants to do is touch his hands and press them down harder. Unbutton his shirt and kiss his collarbone. Tell him everything—tell him she let him in twice and now everything’s just _fucked_ —

A loud knock echoes through the room.

“What the fuck?” she sputters, is about to tell whoever it is to piss off—

“Room service,” Simon answers almost ruefully.

“Shit,” she stands shakily—just the thought of food—“I’m gonna be sick,” and stumbles towards the bathroom. Slams the door shut behind her harder than she’d meant to.

Mostly, though, she just dry heaves over the toilet, nothing really in her guts to get out. Then slumps back and listens to the sounds of Simon eventually letting all the food carts in and signing for her.

“Alisha?” he calls out after a few minutes, his voice near the bathroom door. He doesn’t knock, but she thinks she can hear him place a palm on it. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” she mutters. Or she will be. She hopes she will be.

“Did I—I’m sorry. For taking advantage of you like that.”

It’s an out. She could take it so easily. The upper hand. Let him think she was too plastered to make a real decision. Let him think she thought he was nothing but a freak, still. And that she was normal. Put off the future, if only for a little while.

Problem is she’s not so sure she can do that anymore.

Stands and cracks the door open. “You didn’t do anything wrong—but can you please fuck off now?”

She’d been trying to be nice, honestly. She’s shit at this.

He nods stiffly. “Okay.”

“See ya later?”

He doesn’t reply for a moment, eyes on her like he’s trying to figure something out. “Okay.”


End file.
